


Far Too Old To Die

by ficmeup



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: M/M, Possessive!Peter, darkish, they're both stubborn and it's complicated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-12-04
Packaged: 2018-01-01 07:34:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficmeup/pseuds/ficmeup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone's heard the story of Peter Pan and Captain Hook, of their neverending battle—or is it a game?</p><p>Pan may be a predator, but Hook refuses to be the prey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When there isn't enough of your favourite pairing out there, you have to write your own. These two have chemistry off the charts; how could I resist? There are two lines from the 2003 movie put in here, one is obvious while the other is better hidden. Can you spot it?

* * *

 

Killian Jones has never been an overly ambitious fellow, but even he expected more from his future than to be sitting on the cold muddy ground, back against a tree, and drinking away his sorrows alone.

Well, maybe that was a bit of a lie. His life of piracy always ensured that alcohol was nearby but the alone part… _that_ was a surprise.  Especially since he was so certain, even more so after that passionate kiss, that he and Emma…

But that was before Baelfire was back with them. Before Peter Pan had crushed his hope with three little words: _Baelfire is alive_. Before Hook had then helped save the very person who would certainly ruin his chance with the woman he loved.

Yes, he was never all that ambitious but he didn’t realise he was so _noble_. Or perhaps the word was stupid? Hanging around a group of do-gooders was bound to rub off on him sooner or later, but a little _warning_ would have been nice.

It was only when he watched those two together, the way Emma eyes lit up when Baelfire spoke to her, that he actually realised this was a battle he could never win. Once he accepted that, the situation became easier to grasp.  Although the pitying eyes of Prince Charming (out of all people, he had Emma’s own father feeling sorry for him) could eventually drive him insane.

Hook doubted it would take long for them to realise his distance from the group, or the increased amount of walks he now takes often by himself to ‘scout’ the area ahead. Emma had probably realised it already—she always was a smart, observant little thing.

Still, it doesn’t stop Hook from taking solace in the forest again. He scoffs out loud at that, before downing another gulp of his beverage. No matter how drunk he gets he’s not foolish enough to believe he’s ever alone on this godforsaken island. _His_ island.

That trail of thought leads to a sick, intrusive feeling that leaves goose bumps on his skin, so he stomps down on his thoughts immediately.

 _I’ve survived Neverland before_ , he tells himself, _and I’ll do it again_.

 _But you were also able to leave Neverland before_ , a voice that sounds suspiciously like Pan’s whispers back, _do you really think you’ll be able to escape again?_

Typical. Not even his own mind was safe from the immortal boy that haunts the equally cursed island. He absently wonders if all of this this is penance for Milah dying for him, _because_ of him, or betraying Baelfire all those centuries ago.

He shakes his head. It’s easier to blame someone else altogether, and it would be much more beneficial to use that anger on the cause of the untold suffering that occurs on this island. A person who was undoubtedly nearby and plotting calamity at this very moment.

“Bloody Peter Pan,” he curses to the night sky with contempt, hoping it will be bring him some satisfaction.

It brings him something else entirely.

“That’s not very nice. What did I ever do to you?”

He’s proud to say he barely jumps when Pan announces his presence, but a brief slip of his fingers on the almost empty bottle he holds is all Pan needs to see to know he’s got a reaction. As expected, Peter’s gaze closes in on the action, although gratefully he doesn’t comment on it.

“Would you like me to write you a list?” Hook bitterly asks, barely glancing at the boy that was now leaning against the tree opposite him, arms crossed and a sure confident smirk in place.

Perhaps he can bore Peter Pan to death by ignoring him? Children don’t have much interest in a broken toy, nor an instrument that does not play on command. He hears footsteps that only stop when he can see Peter’s boots and dismisses that idea entirely. You cannot ignore the devil.

“It’s only a bit of fun,” Pan jests, “something you seem to be lacking in.”

“If this is your idea of fun then you need to get another hobby, mate,” he remarks, hiding behind the sarcastic front he has so masterfully skilled throughout the years.

After all, there’s only so much you can do against a demon that knows everything about you; your desires, fears…coupled with the power to give or take them away…

Yes, sarcasm seemed to be the best option of defence.

“And you, _laddie_ ,” Pan mocks his speech with childish glee, “need to get better friends.”

“Oh?” Hook questions, playing disinterested, but old habits end up keeping both his eyes fixed on Peter Pan, who smiles slow and sharp, soaking up the attention.

“I’m sure I don’t need to spell it out for you.”

Hook shakes his whisky at the teen. “I’m afraid you will. I’m rather incapacitated at the moment.”

Between one blink and the next, Pan is kneeling next to him, reaching towards him too fast for Killian to stop—or even _react_ to—and he feels a brief feather touch on his forehead before Pan is leaning back on his heels watching him expectantly.

In seconds the blissful haze from the alcohol is gone, replaced with the harsh clarity of reality again, and he realises what the boy has done. A flash of rage fills his now clear senses and Hook easily grabs Pan’s collar due to their close proximity.

“Was that absolutely necessary?” Hook says, attempting to keep his words calm even as the strong grip he has on Peter gives him away.

“Why so angry, Captain? I wouldn’t personally know, but I’ve heard the effects of alcohol are less than pleasant.” Peter laughs when Hook narrows his eyes. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

He considers getting up and simply walking away or giving into his anger and using his sword to run Pan through, but logically he knows neither will work. It’s impossible to run from or kill a God: you can only hope to appease it in exchange for your continued existence.

Hook sighs, a small tired sound that only Pan would hear, and starts to let him go. “What do you want?”

To his surprise Peter stops him from releasing his grip by placing his hand over his own, nails digging into flesh. “I want many things, Killian. You’ll have to be more specific.”

He growls in frustration, already growing impatient of Pan’s games and goes to pull his hand away again—to create some well needed distance between them.  His effort is futile though, Pan refuses to let go and the strength he carries in his deceivingly lanky body isn’t human. He ends up dragging the teen up with him, who thankfully willingly goes along. It’s a slight comfort but he’d prefer to be standing next to Pan, not sitting. He hopes that small vulnerability he felt hadn’t shown but the mischief dancing in Peter’s eyes tells him he shouldn’t count on it.

“Alright then,” Hook eventually speaks, lips curling in spite, “what could you possibly want from me at this exact moment in time?”

Peter lets out an amused breath at his brazenness. “The same thing I wanted before. Your compliance. I wanted you to work for me again, remember?”

Hook nods slowly, unsure what this was leading to. Surely Pan gave him more credit for his resilience to an offer he had heard only days (or was it hours? It was meaningless to keep track of time in a place that it no longer existed) before. “Aye, and I’ve already told you I have no interest in the old days.”

Pan leans up, the short height distance between them nearly none existent. “But can you say your interest in the present is any better?”

Hook falters, because _it_ was the present that drove him to a drunken stupor, and that brief second is all Pan needs to exploit the weakness he’s found. The playful boyish features disappear, and the malicious, darker side to the teenager starts to emerge as he begins to feast on Hook’s insecurities.

“Do you really believe those people back there actually care for you? That they wouldn’t just leave you to die?” His voice is barely a whisper. “The only thing you can count on is that Prince feeling indebted to you for saving his life. But let’s face it, if it really came down to it, none of them would choose your life, _a pirate_ , over their loved ones.”

“Emma—”

The mention of the saviour makes Peter’s eyes glimmer with—distaste? Hatred? Killian can’t be sure as he never gets the opportunity to decipher the glimpse of emotion before it’s concealed away.

“Her loyalties lie elsewhere. They always have.”

Killian can’t deny it. Emma Swan, the virtuous, stubborn and stunning she-wolf. She would never leave her son or the love of her life…and he’d never ask her to. If there was one characteristic of his he’d always been proud of, it was that, even with all of his dirty flaws, he had honour.

That would do little to assist him now though, as victory starts to show on Pan’s face when he remains speechless.

“Leave these so called friends of yours. Forget about this meaningless quest to save a woman’s son, a woman who has only half feelings for you. Forget them all.” Peter’s other hand snakes up his arm, the contact so light he might even be imagining it. “Come back to Neverland. Come back to _me_.”

He clenches his teeth and looks away from that gaze, from the deceptive sincerity shown in those dark green orbs. He catches the twitch of Pan’s lip in the corner of his eye and has to hold back from making a mad grin of his own. The sadistic brat truly thought he had won with a few sweet words.

Now grateful for the absence of his drunken intoxication, he swiftly brings his hook up and slashes it where Peter Pan’s throat is. All things considered it would be a clean, merciful death for someone as corrupt as him, someone who sees misery and pain as nothing more than a game. Of course, all Killian ends up hitting is air and he almost falls face first now the presence that had practically been holding him steady had vanished. It lets him take a breath of much needed clear air though; air that doesn’t smell like the fresh leaves that is Pan’s scent.

“The great Peter Pan isn’t afraid of death is he?” Hook calls out, knowing better than to believe Pan was done with him. He ignores the frustration he feels when his company reappears directly behind him, of all places. He learnt long ago how childish the teen actually was.

“To die would be an awfully big adventure,” Pan muses, looking uncharacteristically thoughtful until the poisonous grin is back on his lips. “Almost a shame it’s one I’ll never experience.”

“Don’t be so sure,” he snarls at the creature, years of hate burning to the surface. Killian’s seen an immeasurable amount of lives wasted, many his own crew, and he can say with absolute conviction that the gift of life is wasted on Peter Pan.

As always his death threats do little to faze Peter—little more than a source of fleeting entertainment for him—but this time his smile turns rigid, impatience flickering beneath the impish exterior.

“You can’t keep resisting me forever, Killian,” he says simply, spreading his arms. “And as we both know, forever is all we have here.”

Pan begins to circle round him, and in turn so does Hook, unwilling to let the teen get any kind of advantage. Pan may be a predator, but Hook refuses to be the prey. If the boy actually had the need for a weapon, if would appear to an onlooker that they were about to duel.

“Forever, eh? I should have plenty of chances to kill you then,” Hook retorts and puts a hand on the sword he carries, to show good on his threat.

The action greatly amuses Peter, who practically radiates with cockiness as he mock bows. “You’re welcome to try, Captain.” He straightens up painfully slow, dark eyes locked onto his own. “But that’s all they’ll ever be: chances!”

Hook raises an eyebrow at his antics. “Are we finished here?”

Killian doesn’t wait for an answer, swivelling around and walking away from him. It’s not the right way back to the camp, but he’s a pirate with a great sense of direction and the vast seas are more of a challenge than this forest could ever hope to be. Pan’s intention isn’t to have him blindly wandering through the forest, lost. Not yet, anyway.

“They’re going to leave you, Killian. I’ll make sure of it. Even your precious Swan.”

A glance back confirms Pan’s gaze still hasn’t left him, but the ill will and trickery Pan wore like a cloak is exchanged with a cold certainty, which is equally as deadly. He can handle any amount of tricks that Pan has up his sleeve, but his future being stated in ruthless facts makes Hook feel nauseatingly uneasy.

He keeps his pace, but the urge to defend Emma has him responding one last time.

“You know nothing about her,” he snaps back. _Or me_ , he wishes to add, but even the most skilled liar couldn’t get away with that one. “But I’ll let you in on a secret; if anyone’s going to put you out of your misery it’ll be her.”

The temperature swiftly grows chilly, bordering on cold, with a strong breeze suddenly picking up and Hook knows that he’s managed to fracture a small chip in Pan’s impenetrable armour. He should be afraid; this boy is a greater peril than any monster found out there, yet he only feels satisfaction. He almost dares to glimpse at what expression Peter is wearing now, however he fears he wouldn’t make it back to tell the tale.

It’s not until Hook is half way back to camp that Pan makes his move, the finishing act of their game.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” Peter’s voice still manages to follow him even here, taunting, and the memory of the same boy on a beach, those very same words, and the helplessness he felt when his brother choked to death leaves Hook stumbling out the clearing with Pan’s laughter echoing around him.

He lost.

 

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on team 'lets forget about what Pan's real identity is because it's really weird.' Peter Pan is never meant to experience being an adult, let alone a father (so, so weird). For the sake of my sanity I'm throwing that (stupid) plot twist away. Praise the lords for Robbie Kay's continued excellent performance as Pan.
> 
> I doubt the show will give us flashbacks of these two, so I took it upon myself to imagine how it went down. And I got carried away with Neverland in general. Consider yourself warned.

 

* * *

 

It takes much longer than Killian expected to get back the others. The sun was hardly an accurate sign to rely on for what counted as 'time' in Neverland, but with little else to go on it still served best, and light was slowly creeping in the forest, it's bask just a glow away from creating a new day.

Hook desperately wants to blame Pan for his sluggishness, but he knows the fault rests with him this time; he allowed himself to be overwhelmed with the grief of his brother’s death, still fresh and agonising after all this time. It wouldn't— _couldn't_ —happen again. If Pan was able to get the upper-hand on him with but a few harsh words, how would Killian be able to assist in getting Henry back from Pan's clutches or hope to escape the island?

To show any more weakness in front of the being who called himself Peter Pan would eventually lead not just him, but all of them to their demise.

An overgrown branch scraps across Hook's cheek and in retaliation he swipes the offending branch down with his hook, more ferocious than necessary. Pan told—no, boasted—to him long ago about how he was connected to the island, how he controlled every element of its being, and he severely hopes that Pan can feel his anger as he butchered a small part of the boy's home.

He fights his way through the rest of the wild and eventually spots Emma, sitting alone by the fire. When she notices his entrance she places a single finger to her lips, tilting her head in the direction of the rest of their group who are now asleep.

Hook nods and goes to find a place to sit, but Emma gets up and starts walking towards him purposely, a clear I-mean-business strut in her step and he hides his amused grin.

“There you are,” Emma says as she stops in front of him, relief evident on her face before replaced with a stern frown. “You shouldn't go off without at least letting someone know where you are.”

He moves in close and keeps his voice to a whisper. “If I'd had known _you_ were looking for a midnight tryst with me, love, I would have whole heartily left a trail to my whereabouts.”

She rolls her eyes—ready to scold him, probably—until her attention is moved elsewhere. “You reek of rum.”

_Ah_ , yes. How would he explain his reason for needing a copious amount of alcohol without sounding like a miserable fool? Hook was also reluctant to share his 'meeting' with Pan knowing full well the boy would somehow hear every word; the less attention they gave him, the better.

“I'm delighted you feel the need to smell me, Swan,” he says instead and waggles his eyebrows for the full effect. “I'll gladly return the favour.”

She ignores him, giving him a critical eye over. “You don't _look_ drunk. Or even sound tipsy.”

“Now what kind of pirate captain would I be if I couldn't hold my liquor?” Hook shrugs. “Not a very good one, that's what. And, not to brag, but I've heard I'm one of the best.”

Emma is clearly still suspicious, hands on her hips as she studies Hook, but when he refuses to budge she sighs and lets it go. “I'm taking watch for the rest of the night; you should get some sleep while you can.”

“I can think of several other activities’ we could be doi—”

“ _Sleep_ , Hook.”

He chuckles, waving his hands in a surrendering gesture before picking a spot to sit down in, near the fireplace but still a distance away from his unconscious companions so not to wake them. Even from the stretch of gap he's left between them he can clearly see the loving embrace of Snow White and her Prince Charming and he _almost_ feels jealous until he notices Neal in one corner (his restless fidgeting giving away the fact that he's awake), appearing alone and equally as miserable as himself and the bitterness inside him momentarily thrives on it.

He doesn't plan on sleeping through what little of the night is left, not when he can still sense Pan in the area like a cobra waiting to strike at any given moment. Many of his nights spent on Neverland were in the delusional safety of his ship's quarters, and even with their routine of someone keeping watch at all times it's a far cry from the security he felt aboard the Jolly Roger.

Remarkably enough he doesn't even feel the _need_ to rest, his encounter with Pan still spinning on repeat and sustaining him with energy...yet strangely he finds his eyes drifting shut anyway, the heavy pull on his eyelids impossible to defy.

 

* * *

 

“What business do you have on my ship?”

His demand is steady, coated in the assurance and authority that only an experienced captain would be capable of in the unexpected situation of his ship being over taken by several, young hooded barbarians. Killian would have barked at his crew to stop shaking like shark bait if he wasn't so on edge himself.

“I think, Captain,” the tallest boy speaks up, his voice sickly smooth and lethal, “that I should be the one asking the questions. What business do you have on _his_ island?”

_His_ island...?

It's never wise to show a lack of knowledge in front of enemies and despite Killian's curiosity all but singing at him to obtain answers about the mysterious place called Neverland (a place only few people knew existed and whispered about, small truths mixed in with fantasised lies) he held his inquires.

“I seek something.” He purposely keeps his answer vague. “I have reason to believe this land can provide what I'm looking for.”

_I've much more than reason. I've held that cursed poison in my hand, watched its destructive power in motion,_ he doesn't say.

The boy—teenager?—taps his club across his back. _Once. Twice._ A sudden pained scream has them all whirling to the right, the sound of steel ringing in Hook's ears as all weapons are drawn. Two hooded boys have Smee by his arms; one is bent awkwardly, hanging uselessly in the capturers grasp.

_The movement of his club was an order_ , he realises, _and they went after the weakest first_. If he wasn't so bloody pissed he dare say he might be impressed by their tactic. He's mostly disgusted.

The apparent leader's cold and merciless gaze never wavers from Killian. “Keep dodging my questions and we'll break his other arm.”

Smee has the common sense to not cower, but the tremble of his body gives away his fear and Hook knows the boys can smell his panic, like ravenous wolves.

“Try it,” he dares, pulling his pistol from his jacket and aiming. “And I'll blow your head off, boy or not.”

The action doesn't get him a surrender, but the teenager stills his weapon and raises his chin, the pale moonlight just bright enough for Killian to see the scar that engulfs one side of his face. _These are not just children,_ his mind warns him as his palms start to sweat, _and they are not to be underestimated._

The warning comes too late. Before he has a chance to alert his crew or unsheathe his own sword, several hands are yanking him to the floor, his knees hitting the unrelenting wooden surface and a knife is held to his throat before any pirate can even take a breath.

His eyes had seen no movement; he had kept his back to the edge of the Jolly Roger at all times to block any attempt at a sneaky ambush they might have planned. The rest of the boys must have swam to the other side of the boat while they were distracted and climbed up, like wild animals would scurry up a tree to escape it's predator, or in this case catch its prey.

"What a cowardly tactic," he sneers through a humourless smirk, ignoring when the blade is brought closer to his neck.

“Admit defeat. You're outnumbered.” The scarred boy smiles, all razor teeth. “Not that it matters. When we're done with you there won't be many left."

His crew are restless, eyes flickering between the hooded figure and their captain, awaiting the order to fight or lay down their weapons. He squeezes his eyes shut in frustration and feels defeat steadily clinging to him. Could he really just give up now when his way to obtain revenge was so close, just a mere shore away?

“Is that anyway to treat our new guests, Felix?”

The young voice rings out across the deck, deceptive innocence bleeding through the boyish tone, and Killian's entire body freezes, his heart wildly hammering in his chest the only indication that he's still breathing.

“ _You_ ,” he snarls ( _hisses_ ) out as the shadow reveals himself.

“Me,” Pan concurs and chuckles, low and menacing as he skilfully leaps down from the rail, the rest of the boys silently parting to let the new arrival pass, similar to how one would treat a King.

_There's no Kings in Neverland. Just me._

What a fool he had been to miss such a warning in Pan's word play. Now he was going to pay the price. _Like his brother._

“It has been such a long time, Killian. I was afraid you had forgotten all about me.”

His carefree and playful demeanour has Killian struggling against the boys that hold him, mindless rage overtaking him as his body shakes with the need to kill, to inflict an equal amount of suffering on the boy guilty of stealing his only sibling away from him. If the knife hadn't been moved away from his vulnerable throat he would have accidentally brought about his own death from all the thrashing, a fact that barely registers over the murderous haze.

Throughout his struggle, Pan watches with an irritating patience that never falters and a grin appears on his lips as Killian eventually runs out of breath, sagging against the human restraints that may as well be iron chains.

“Come back to take revenge on me?” Pan reaches down and places a finger under Killian's chin, forcing him to tilt his head further back. “How exciting.”

“I did come back here for revenge.” He swallows and watches as Peter's eyes fill with a twisted pleasure before he spitefully adds, “But not on _you_.”

He takes pleasure in watching the way Pan's joy flickers into annoyance, and can tell his remark has displeased him. _Good._

“Of course,” Pan murmurs resentfully, gaze shifting to his hook, “your... _crocodile_ still needs to be dealt with before the real fun can begin.”

He stares at the boy in muted shock. That's the name Killian had labelled the Dark One with, back when he was naïve to believe he was still Rumpelstiltskin, the coward. “How do you know about that?”

Pan steps back and raises his brow, an imitation of his own astonishment. “It's not that surprising, is it? I couldn't possibly rule Neverland if I wasn't aware of every little dirty secret that you adults carried and _oh_ , how many enticing secrets you hold, _Captain Hook._ ”

Pan's boys snicker at their leader’s new name for him and Killian's arms itch to reach forward past his binds and squeeze the life from the boy, draw the same pained stuttering gasps that were the end of Liam.

“I like that look in your eyes,” Pan praises after watching him silently, mirth now replaced by a serious exterior. “So I'll cut you a deal: do my dirty work whenever I call and I'll give you what you desire and _more_.”

Killian's mind halts at the abrupt change in what was previously a grim situation. A glimmer of hope stirs in his chest as he considers the offer. It's clear Peter's identical to when Killian last laid eyes on him, even down to the boyish gold locks framed the same way…meaning he had to be in possession of the same powerful corrupt magic he hoped to extinguish in another, but this boy was equally—if not more—dangerous than the Dark One.

He travelled here for Dreamshade, but there was no guarantee it still grew on the island or would even affect the immortal Rumpelstilskin, and if anyone held knowledge about such powerful magic…it might be Pan. Killian would be used by this boy, but he would use him in return.

“Fine,” he says before he can regret it, although the only other alternatives would most likely be death or forced out of Neverland—he can't afford to do either. “For the first part of our bargain and a show of good faith have your lackeys unhand me _now_.”

Pan laughs, the sound torn between impressed and disbelief. “Very well. We have ourselves an accord. Don't disappoint me, Captain.”

He nods to the youngsters holding him (he barely moves his head, an imperceptible movement that expresses nothing compared to his endless gaze) and the grip that holds Killian is released.

Before he can even catch himself Pan is gone, only an empty space where he once stood. He doesn't need the glance around to know that his companions have vanished with him.

The men don't move for a while after that, not until their captain is back on his feet and yelling out meaningless orders at them to weigh in a sense of normality over the heavy, looming threat they were now tortuously aware lived on the island.

 

* * *

 

His crew have taken to calling him Captain Hook. He's not sure if it's a slip of their tongue, or if Pan's magic is in play, creeping into their heads and chipping away at their personality’s slowly making them into puppets that bend to his will.

At first it aggravates him, a constant reminder that Peter Pan is still breathing and that he has hard steel where soft flesh should be. His dismemberment was not a memory he liked to dwell on, but then it begins to make Killian feel powerful, a warning that those who take his disability for granted would suffer the consequences by the very thing they mocked.

The hook is a sign of who he is and his purpose—he had struck the Dark One with this hook before, but next time it would be fatal, stained in the poison or magic that Killian would do anything to obtain, surely taking the Dark One’s life.

Most days his destructive and darkest goal is all that gets Killian through the never-ending cycle, the island always a constant image on the horizon, cunningly beautiful.

 

* * *

 

When Pan does finally make the effort to show it's surprisingly without preamble or ceremony. He's just _there,_ curled against the corner of the captain’s cabin like a cat waiting to pounce.

“I'm here to collect,” Pan says plainly when he knows Hook's spotted him.

“You’re late,” Hook replies matching his deadpan tone, not bothering to glance away from the desk that he's sat behind. Maps and charts are thrown haphazardly around him, rare parchments that code realms and reveal treasures he no longer had access to.

“How can I be late in a domain separated from age?” Pan asks and tilts his head feigning innocence. “I also never stated _when_ in our agreement.”

“Then state it _now_.” His patience has already cracked, collapsing long before Pan even made an appearance, the meaningless and uneventful days spent on Neverland recollecting old aches finally catching up to him. “ _When_ will you give me the Dreamshade?”

Killian doesn't ask the hidden, _and will you even allow us to leave after_ , dreads the answer will break him; shatter the remaining shields he has against this cursed place.

The anger directed at Pan barely reaches or touches him. “When the time is right.”

Hook slowly drags an amused eyebrow up. “I thought you just said _time_ didn't exist in Neverland.”

Pan's eyes narrow slightly at the slip up, though Hook doesn't have a chance to relish in it as the arrogant aura slides fluently back in place.

“Have you learnt nothing so far?” He tsks; shaking his head in disappointment, then eases himself off the wall in one smooth motion. “I make the rules here. I say what exists and what doesn't. If I wish it, _anything_ can occur on this island—even if that happens to be your pathetic conception of _time_.”

During the boast Pan had stalked closer, thin fingers now stretched on the table in between them. Killian’s never been so grateful for a piece of wood before. A terrible barrier, but a barrier none the less.

“I take it you came here for more than bragging,” he rebukes, immensely unimpressed at Pan's show of power. There’s no doubt he’ll ever be able to forget just how much leverage the boy holds over him; he doesn’t need any reminders.

Every inch of Peter beams at him, pearly white teeth with emerald eyes glowing, and Killian scarcely suppresses a shudder at the immediate danger his instincts are alerting him to.

Pan steals the pen Hook holds in his good hand, a lightning fast snatch, and drags the item agonisingly slow across the desk (scarring the already worn down surface as he did) before resting it on his pale cheek.

“Tell me, Killian, how do you feel about fairies?”

 

* * *

 

Turns out he hates fairies. Or, what's left of them anyway. He doesn't dally on what happened to them here _—_ has no more room in his heart for anything other than his revenge.

Pan had informed him of the pixie dust he required and where to find it (on the highest branch, closest to the stars, where the flowers bloomed at midnight). It mustn’t have crossed his manipulative mind to mention the huge detail about it being on the _tallest bloody tree in all of Neverland_.

The boy can _fly_ , for heaven’s sake, and here he was, one-handed and climbing several feet in the air. True, he had never witnessed Pan hovering anywhere above the ground, he seemed to prefer the disorientating ability to teleport wherever he damn wished, but Hook once passed by the lost boys on their way back to camp, who were babbling excited, _did you see Peter? He flew today, he did! I swear! Said I could too, if I believed hard enough_.

He digs his hook extra hard into the bark as he heaves himself closer to the dust. Pan was obviously toying with him, running Killian on errands that were an easy task for him, as he watched from the shadows, waiting for Hook to gradually succumb to the madness that infected the land. When he had proposed the idea of sending one of his crew members for the little collection task, Pan had laughed and demanded that he wanted him to go alone.

_You must be so bored, cooped up on this ship_ , Pan had said, _you need an adventure._

_I need my revenge,_ he had hissed right back.

_All in due time._ The emphasis on time didn’t go unnoticed. Gaining that slight victory over Pan came with consequences, it seemed.

One last haul and he reaches as high as the tree has grown. Sure enough, newly blossomed flowers are scattered in every nook. The dust (green, instead of the gold he had believed it would be) is already visible, shining through the purple petals. It was beautiful.

It was magic.

Undoubtedly it came with a price, a trickery to its enchantment.  Rotating the nearest plant in his hand he watches with fascination as the pixie dust curves around his fingers, drawn in like a moth to a flame.

“You have to sprinkle it on yourself for any affect, silly.”

The sudden inquiry belonging to what sounded like a very entertained female has Hook almost losing his balance. How long had it been since he had heard the light tone belonging to a woman, one that didn't drip from the poisonous mouth of a mermaid or any other horrid creature that Neverland had lurking in its depths? _Far too bloody long_ , his mind bitterly supplies.

A flirtatious smirk automatically grows on his face as he turns his head to look down at the new arrival.

She holds a striking resemblance to Pan, with her blonde curls and tattered jade outfit, but one glance at her face is enough to put him at ease. Where Pan's expression is filled with sin, sharp edges, hers is soft and open, amusement pure in nature.

“Hold it right there, handsome,” she speaks before he can voice his question about who she is, gesturing to her ear. _He's always listening_.

_Better to keep the topic light at first,_ is the message, _Pan doesn't approve of his pawns acting of their own accord._

“So even from this distance you can notice my good looks?” Hook yells down, taking it all in quick stride, and her returning laughter is like a splash of blissfully cold water on a boiling summer’s day.

She sets down a woven basket (it's impossible to see what its contents were from his _extremely_ high vantage point). “You're Killian, right?”

It's been a while since anyone other than Pan addressed him by his actual name. He's divided between delight and despair. “You've heard of me?”

“You're quite the talk of the forest.” Her rosy cheeks dimple. “The ambitious pirate who came here of his own free will, who then struck a bargain with the Prince of Neverland.”

“And here I thought I was just surviving.”

“Exactly!” She giggles at Hook's expressed confusion. “Not many people manage to do that here, you know.”

“Well,” he says, adjusting to more comfortable position on the tree, “you seem to be doing a marvellous job, lass.”

He expects the compliment to cause her eyes to light up, the easy smile he has already fallen for to grace her mouth, but it has the opposite effect, expression beginning to smoulder into hatred (for Pan or herself, he wouldn't know) and it's almost like looking in a mirror.

“I'm broken,” she says bluntly, a shameful declaration but her words do not tremble and her gaze does not waver. “I'm allowed to stay here because he likes broken things. Nothing more.”

_Is that why he was here? Was he broken?_

He digs his nails into his palms, forcing himself out of his self-pity. A beautiful lady was desperately in need of comfort and here he was focusing on his own miseries. Shame on him! The problem is, Killian's always been a man of action, and unfortunately he was still in the predicament of being high up in a tree with her planted on the ground. He could risk it and leap down to embrace her, but he doubts breaking his legs as a result would be very impressive or helpful in the slightest.

“Come with me,” he breathes out instead. “Back to my ship. Get away from this blasted land for a night.”

It feels like the start of something wild, reckless and forbidden and every bit as exhilarating. They stare at each other, wide-eyed and hopeful.

“You're unbelievable,” she grumbles fondly but it's far from a denial. “I _—_ ”

A gust of deafening air sweeps away the rest of her sentence, a strong wind rushing throughout the forest and Killian thinks he's the one shaking until he notices the whole tree _—forest_ is trembling.

The way her head swivels in all directions, body tense in anticipation, tells Hook the sudden weather change is carrying something much more menacing than the breeze and it's not hard to guess the cause: Pan.

It doesn't last long, the blast quickly quieting down into a low hum, and the scenery quavers back into place, making any evidence of the abnormal climate ever occurring non-existent.

It was a warning.

It worked.

They're both slammed back into the reality of their situation, soothing escapes now futile to reach for. There’s only silence as they gather themselves; their masks being put back in place.

“Sorry, but it looks like I'll have to refuse that offer after all.” The sunny smile is now laced with sadness. “I've always been more of a forest gal. I'm sure we'll cross each other’s paths soon.”

They both know it's a lie. He watches her gather her handmade basket, disappearing into the forest _—_ back to wherever she's managed to scrape up a home in this hell _—_ and the expected fury never comes, just a numbing sensation that causes his limbs to grow heavy with exhaustion as he climbs back down.

It's so much worse than anger.

 

* * *

 

Pan is reclined in his chair when Hook gets back aboard the ship. He's managed to make it look like a throne made of gold with the way he lounges in it, limbs draped over the arms and legs spread wide, a small repetitive tap bouncing his left foot up and down.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

“Anything interesting happen?” Dark eyes dance back and forth and he _knows_.

“Uneventful.” Hook keeps his response emotionless and throws the pocket of pixie dust at Pan.

Peter juggles the pouch between his hands and makes a thoughtful hum. “I doubt that very much.”

He's content to pretend the boy isn't a threatening presence in his cabin and starts to remove the twigs and petals stuck to him, but Pan knows what buttons to push, what exact words to speak to elicit a response.

“Tinkerbell always was such an enticing vixen,” he muses, the vague sentence spoken like a secret.

Killian never did catch (didn't dare ask) the name of her and here Pan was, offering the name without price. A warning alarm roars through his head at Pan's different approach.

“She used to be so beautiful, Killian,” Pan continues, tone brimming with fabricated compassion, “until her folly brought upon her down fall—such a waste.”

There’s a missing piece in the puzzle, but even with a thousand guesses Hook could never unravel the story of Tinkerbell and what led her to Neverland, of all realms, and above all what reason made her remain.

Hook glares at him in loathing. “She _still_ is beautiful. Far more than you'll ever know.”

“How _sweet,”_ he coos as the grin slides off his face. “It makes me want to rip off what little remains of her crippled wings.”

The threat may sound like madness spewed by someone else, but with Pan it's a certainty and he strides towards the teenager, pinning him deeper into the chair with his hook against Pan’s throat.

“You’re a demon,” he tells him, _growls_ at him, “lives _—innocent_ lives _—_ are nothing more than a game to you. You may look like a boy but you’re too corrupted to even be considered human.”

Pan, unfortunately, looks positively delighted at the change of events.

“If I'd known all I had to do was insult an exiled fairy to get you in my arms,” Pan leans forward as much as the hook to his throat allows. “I would have done so much earlier.”

“I should kill you.” A conviction voiced more for Killian’s ears. He should, it could be _so_ easy with Pan right here, at his mercy. Damn waiting for information about his crocodile from a demon who laughed in the face of anguish.

Logic manages to find him through the storm of animosity raging in him—any vulnerability shown by a boy viciously latching onto eternity had to be a lie. A sword through Pan’s stomach wouldn’t even scar him, let alone injure him, and in the end Hook would only be worse off.

Instead he settles for words.

“I _despise_ you,” he snarls and Pan’s responding laugh leaves his skin prickling.

The statement doesn’t even graze the surface to the contempt he holds.

“Oh, good,” Pan is greedily pulling him closer, wrapping a steel vice grip around his neck. “Give into that fire of yours. I like fire.” He tilts his neck to the side, revealing more pale flesh. “Show me how much you hate me. _Mark me_.”

It's reckless, he knows it's reckless; it's not just his life on the line now, and yet he wants to see this boy _bleed_. He drags the tip of his hook across the white throat, a trail of crimson left behind but _it's not enough_ and with Pan following, _allowing_ the action...it tastes like defeat.

That still doesn't stop the hunger that now latches onto his throat, nor the thrill Hook feels under the heated gaze of Pan.

He shoves the boy away, retreating ( _fleeing_ ) to the outside (far, far away from Peter).

Pan’s relaxes back into his chair of royalty, the look on his face smug as he traces the slip of blood and flicks it away with his thumb. “We'll finish some other time, shall we?”

Killian slams the door on his way out.

A chuckle, dark and promising, follows him to the deck as he inhales the air his lungs always seem to crave tenfold in the presence of Pan.

It's not fear that curls in his belly that night.

 

* * *

 

He watches from the starboard of the Jolly Roger as another child is held captive by the shadow in the night sky, their pleas going unheard by the phantom as it sends them to straight to the devil itself; straight to Pan. _How long would it take for this one to be broken from his attachments and moulded into a heartless tool?_ He wonders with a worrying amount of detachment.

The first time the pirates had witnessed the kidnapping, they had attempted to shoot down the shadow. It rarely worked, merely a minor inconvenience for the ghost as it dodged bullets that might injure Pan’s newest conquest. Sometimes, they had got lucky and the child was dropped into the sea, buying precious minutes that Killian would use warning the boys of what would happen to them when the shadow inevitably returned for them—warning them about the _Lost Ones_.

Remarkably Pan never interfered. A mystery that wasn’t answered until one of his crew was murdered in cold blood, by one of the very boys they had tried to save, when they had headed to the island for provisions.

Why would Pan bother to end their meddling, when their efforts were futile and he got what he desired at the end?

So now Hook just watches and listens to their screams of terror with an impassive front.

If the Dark One ripped Killian's heart out of chest now, would it be black like his, wrapped with the multiple layers of his sins and immorality?

A splash brings Killian’s attention to the murky water mostly still below him, and a pair of luminous spheres shine through the depths. A mermaid is watching him. Her moonlight hair tangles and rests on the water’s surface, puckered mouth and a button nose creating a vision of beauty.

_Stupid_ , he berates himself. Long before Hook became a pirate, a life of being a sailor, he had witnessed up close what became of the men who were lured by the mermaids dazzling appearance and their pretty beckons.

The lucky ones were _just_ drowned.

He casually waves his hand at her when she continues to observe him with a frown.

She merely blinks in response.

It all feels very awkward.

“As much as I love a beautiful lass staring at me so,” he says and breaks off while fumbling for an accurate word to describe the malicious glare the mermaid wears, “ah, _heatedly,_ having your undivided attention for so long is making even me nervous.”

“You're him,” she exhales in awe (an uncanny difference to the scowl prominent on her features), causing slight ripples in the water. “You're the one they call Hook.”

“...Aye,” he says when no further information is brought forth. “And who might you be?”

“No one of importance, not anymore,” she whines, her mouth set in a pretty pout. “He doesn't wish to play with the mermaids these days. Not even me, his favourite. No, no. Not like he does with you. Content to just watch you, he is.”

The hairs on the back of Hook's neck stand up when he gets the sinking feeling he knows exactly what— _who—_ the mermaid is talking about.

“Truly a tale of woe,” he says dismissively, suddenly eager to end a conversation concerning _him_. “Pirates aren't here for your consolation, love.” _Nor to be eaten._

“I can see why Peter likes you.” The mermaid giggles, the sound alike to ringing a bell, and she edges gracefully closer to the ship. “Your eyes are so blue, deep and mysterious like the very sea I claim home to. What colour are my eyes, land-dweller?”

He goes to protest at her title for him; he is every bit belonging to the waves as she, but the objection never falls from his lips as he meets her gaze and all sense is stolen away.

Her eyes...just what shade of grey _are_ they...? They seemed to sparkle, alternating between the reflections of the water, to the stormy sky. If he could just get a _closer_ look...and she's reaching a hand toward him, offering help as he leans forward _—_

Then Hook's abruptly being yanked back by his coat, the pull unrelenting until he hits a solid chest and feels an arm wind around his waist. He distantly hears a low, beastly hiss through the foggy mush but dismisses it; no human could make that noise and the appendage tightly securing him is definitely human.

“ _Bloody hell_ ,” he groans and shame burns throughout his veins (blimey, he almost got bested by a _mermaid's_ oldest trick in the book). He releases a shaky and relieved laugh, turning in his saviours hold to thank him, whichever crew member it was would be guaranteed freedom from cleaning the deck for at least a year _—_

He takes back his earlier assessment. The living creature holding him is far from human.

Hook tears away from the hold like one would flinch ( _cower,_ a traitorous voice whispers) from a burn. His body barely has time to catch up with his movements, only just managing to grip the ships railing for support.

Pan watches his movements with an amused smirk. “Careful. You might fall out the boat,” he pauses, rolling his eyes, “you know, _again_.”

The teenager makes no move towards him, appearing perfectly content on Hook's ship like he's always belonged there, part of its old structure though his green tunic clashes against the drab colours of the Jolly Roger, demanding otherwise.

“You're really living up to that pirate title,” Pan nonchalantly continues as if Hook wasn't gaping like a fish at him. “Almost getting drowned by mermaids and all. Not the most original way to go out in your career.”

Finally he hears footsteps from below the deck, his crew hearing the commotion, or maybe Peter's distinct voice, and coming to investigate. He mentally notes to ration their whisky; the lazy sea-dogs would be finding their captains body floating in the sea right now if it wasn't for...

_Seven hells_. Peter Pan saved his life.

“You saved my life,” he repeats out loud, tone thick with suspicion.

“I can be capable of kindness,” Pan says, so earnest, and it truly sounds like he actually believes his own lie that Killian can't help but laugh _—_ a harsh, strangled noise that finishes almost as soon as it began.

“What could a _boy_ ,” he spits the word with all the hostility he can muster, “possibly know about kindness when he can't even understand the simple concept of love?” His hand subconsciously reaches for comfort and rubs over his tattoo. _Milah_.

“Love?” Peter scoffs, scrunching his nose as if the mention of it offends him. “There is no place for such fickle things like _love_ in Neverland.”

For once they agree on something.

The lapping of the waves is all that can be heard as they stare at each other, wariness and bemusement clashing against one another as neither refuse to back down. They’re both waiting for the other to move first.

He notices (how could he not?) the scar high above Pan’s collar bone, the exact place he had pierced previously. All Pan had to do was will it away, and yet there it persisted, a single blemish upon otherwise perfect skin.

He’s not sure what to make of it, hesitant to even begin to understand what runs through Peter Pan, what drives and moves him.

When Pan notices where his gaze lingers, the smile it causes is dark and hungry, and for the first time the cruel amusement Pan wears like a second skin is absent. Killian pretends he cannot fathom anything about the scorching expression, refuses to head down that damnable passage.

The door that leads to the lower cabins finally bashes open with a loud thump and Pan is gone before it even has time to swing from the force.

“Everything alright, Captain?” Smee asks while the other pirates are scouring the deck for the long gone intruder. They’ve somehow got used to Pan’s presence on the ship, his frequent and unexplained visits, and the panic they once held is replaced with heavy caution.

He waves a dismissive hook. “Fine and dandy. Oh, Mr. Smee?”

“Aye, Captain?”

“I _hate_ mermaids. From now on don't let any get near the Jolly Roger.”

Smee shuffles from foot to foot, curiosity evident to burst, but loyalty stills his tongue and he parts with a, “...Aye, Captain.”

He never does see that particular mermaid again and he nearly feels pity for whatever early fate Pan forced upon her.

After all, the only one deserving of the suffering Pan was capable of was his to kill.

 

* * *

 

The first thing Hook notices when he wakes is the severe headache; a heavy sickening feeling that Hook's encountered enough times to know exactly what ailment it is. A hangover.

He groans and places a hand over his forehead, the exact spot where Pan's fingers had been when he had taken it upon himself to rid Hook of his intoxication. _Clearly_ , Hook thinks bitterly, _he left the undesirable after effects untouched. The little bastard._

Once the vertigo simmers down Killian begins to speculate the rather vivid direction his brain took him down during the night. He was never much of a dreamer. Even the happiest moments of his life he did not dream; only specks of trivial things would float through his mind and be lost to him in the morning. His subconscious would often torment him with tempting what ifs, but they were far and between. So that dream he just had, _all those memories_ , were too accurate and precise to be the work of his own mind.

That left only one conclusion: for whatever reason, Pan wanted him to reminisce about the past, whether Hook wanted to or not.

“Are you okay? You've been frowning to yourself for a while now since you woke up.”

David is standing over him, concerned features set in place as he adjusts his sword onto his back.

“Recalling the dream I just had,” he answers truthfully as he begins to stand and _damn_ , why was he being so honest? Hook blames the fact that he’s only just woke up after enduring what felt like the longest slumber he’s ever experienced.

Charming appears as shocked as himself about his forthrightness, though he covers it quickly with a warm smile. “My wife always said that talking about them helps unravel their mysteries.”

The good will and intent is practically dripping off the Prince and crumbling down onto Hook, who was way out his league when it came to such generosity that his mouth began moving of its own will. “I gather that's probably not a great idea as my dream involved rather promising positions of your daughter.”

All movement at the camp seems to stop and it's only then Killian realises that _yeah, everyone is already awake_ and _oh, they can probably hear this delightful little conversation._

He doesn't see the fist that flies toward him, and even if he had he probably wouldn't have taken action to stop it. The combination of a hangover and self-loathing ends up with him falling to the unforgiving dirt in a heap of leather. The Prince stomps away, a worried Mary-Margaret following close behind whispering into his ear.

To preserve what little dignity Hook has left after that spectacle he should probably lift himself from the ground, but it's surprisingly comfortable with the encasing cushion of crisp, earthly leaves, creating a scent that smells familiar, almost like... _Pan_.

He drags his hand across the dirt, blindly gathering a bunch of leaves in his grip and crushes down, _hard_. The satisfying crunch of the greenery almost brings a grin to his face until he notices how...childish he's being.

“I didn't hear all of that but I'm pretty sure you deserved it,” an amused voice says from above, dragging Hook out of his irritating thoughts, and it takes a second for him to realise it's Bae— _Neal_.

“That I did,” he muffles into the soil. “Help a lad up, will you?”

There's the shuffle of footsteps that makes Hook think Neal has abandoned him but then he's being pulled up at a frightening speed.

“Much appreciated,” he says as he straightens himself, because despite what many people think he _does_ actually have manners. Most of the time.

“I know you didn't dream about Emma,” Neal says suddenly causing Hook to tense in return.

“Became a mind-reader did you?” he spits out unkindly. “Or has your jealousy turned into denial?”

“I _heard_ you mumbling in your sleep,” Neal explains, completely undaunted, and it takes all of Hook's endurance not to wince. “I'm pretty sure we all did, which explains why Emma's father didn’t take out your teeth with that punch. He knew you were lying.”

Hook raises a hand to his cheek, but the pain is already gone and the skin was unlikely to bruise. _Huh_. He _had_ thought the blow felt more like a shove.

Neal continues to stare at him, gaze firm even through the slight hesitance he carried. “It sounded like a...nightmare.”

“Ah,” he says pathetically, racking his mind for a joke to cut the thick tension now around them and coming up empty.

“Neverland,” Neal eventually supplies, and his tone holds no judgement.

“Neverland,” he agrees and silence descends upon them as they both recall the many horrors of what the island has brought them—and what it had yet to give.

Hook had already done enough remembering today, thanks to Pan and his little trick, so with a roll of his shoulders and the return of his rude smirk he says, “Does this mean I have your full acceptance and understanding to dream about Emma to escape these horrors?”

“ _Don't_ push it, pirate.”

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the lack of kissing so far...apparently I like the build up between these two hot heads.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who left a kudos, and a special thanks to the angels that even took the time to comment. It would be much appreciated if you continue to do so as I really have no idea where I'm taking this.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helllo! I should metion that at the moment I only get two days a week (my laptop broke and therefore everything is horrid) where I get a chance to write. Please stay with me though?
> 
> Flashbacks indicated with * * * when they start and eventually end because I'm terrible with transitions. This chapter (sort of) takes place during the time that Regina stalked off and after they got Pan's shadow...if I'm remembering this correctly. But hey, it's fanfic! We get to mess around with all the details!

 

* * *

 

“This way,” Hook instructs with a quick glance behind to his following companions. When he looks to the path again he receives a handful of vegetation smacking him in the face. He spits and flings his hook around. Overall, it was a hardly a dignifying way to handle the situation.     

He’s certain that branch wasn’t there before and he glares at it, hopeful it would shrivel under his glower. The queasiness from his hangover had mostly vanished, but even clear headed he didn’t want to deal with a _moving_ forest.

“Maybe I should lead,” Charming suggests as he watches Hook have a one-sided battle with the wild, half-heartedly oppressing a smile.

“Do that and we’ll walk right off a cliff and into the damnable arms of the mermaids,” Hook says, and is pleased to see a shiver run through the lot of them as their imagination takes hold.

“He’s right,” Neal says from the back of their formation, shocking them all before he adds, “I’ll lead for a whie. We’ll head for Tinker Bell’s place by mostly using the beach.”

“The coast is too open,” Hook argues.

“But the forest is slowing us down too much,” Mary-Margaret says, nibbling on her lower-lip in her worry, wary eyes taking in the scenery.

He shakes his head; the lass has a point but…“I’d rather be _slow_ than departed.”

“What’s it matter, anyway?” Neal asks, frustration visibly hitting a high. “Pan seems to know our every move; we might as-well be out in the open if it means we’ll travel faster.”

Hook frowns as memories of barely dodged arrows, stalking shadows and giant fangs enter his thoughts. “Pan isn’t the only danger lurking on this island, mate. You’d do well to remember that.”

“ _Okay_ ,” Emma cuts in before a fight starts, slipping into her leader role. “We’ll take Neal’s way first and if we run into trouble we’ll head back into the forest. Everybody happy?”

The rest voice their consent, and when they look to him expectantly he nods, even as the impending risk of danger curls in his blood.

“What if we don’t run into Regina before we meet up with Tinker Bell?” the Princess voices her doubt, one they were all most likely thinking, and they all falter in their actions.

“Then we are just going to have to continue on without her,” David says, but he doesn’t look entirely happy at the idea.

“No. We _need_ her magic. The only other person here who can actually use magic is me, and well…” Emma trails off, briefly self-conscious before regaining herself, “I’m not exactly confident in my abilities.”

“We can’t just wait here in the hope Regina actually decides to come back to us.” Mary-Margaret turns to her husband for assistance. “What do we do?”

Hook groans, watching them all propose different ideas, and takes a few steps back to lean against one of the trees. Honestly, the time they’re wasting _discussing_ they could be _walking_. He closes his eyes and almost feels bad at how easy it is to block out his company, reducing them to nothing more than white noise in the background as stars burst under shut eye lids.

 

* * *

 

Killian very rarely steps foot on the island unless he has to; it's something that greatly annoys Pan, he knows, and he draws some sick satisfaction from it. Sure, Pan would order him to do numerous tasks on the island, but then it wasn't the same—it was a command then, not Hook's own freewill. Pan was a boy who always got what he desired, unaccustomed to hearing the word no (would anyone even dare?) and having a… _tool_ fight back was no doubt irritating.

Maybe that's why Pan kept coming back, tormenting him.

Magic seeped into every fragment of Neverland, even the very air he breathed, and it was all under the will of a twisted boy—so yes, Hook was happy to stay as far as possible from the land. The sea was the closest he had to home, always had been, and so on the Jolly Roger he stayed.

Of course, Pan wasn't likely to let him have his way for very much longer. Hook wouldn't put it past the brat to destroy the entire ship, effectively making them stranded. Honestly, he'd rather lose his other hand.

Despite all of Killian's aversion of the island, however, his presence on the land now was his own (crazy, _careless_ , hasty) choice. Hook's tolerance was dwindling down into nothing, the promise from Pan hardly a reliant asset to fall back on and he was tired of doing nothing but be a part of Pan's ever changing whims. It was a foolhardy move, one he didn't predict when he woke to another sunrise, but that could work in his favour—how could Pan know what he was up to when he didn't even know himself?

When he had started to dismount from the Jolly Roger his crew had been full of inquiries. He kept the truth to himself, parting with an excuse that they required more food (a lie, their stocks never seemed to run out, no doubt part of Pan's magic at work) and rowed himself to shore before they could make any protests.

If his task ended in failure it would only damper their spirits more.

It was impossible to forget anything about his first, dreaded trip to Neverland, imprinted on his mind like an unwanted scar; you always knew it was there, no matter how much you looked away and denied its existence. He remembered the way through the tangled roots to the Dreamshade as well as he knew every inch of the Jolly Roger. All he had to do was grab the dastardly poison at the top of Dead Man's Peak and leave as quickly as possible.

The sail made from Pegasus feathers was no-where near as grand as it once had been, he wasn't even sure if there was enough feathers left anymore to carry the ship very far, but he had to _try_. They would pick an opportune moment where Pan would be distracted—when the shadow brought a new child, perhaps.

"Dammit," he mumbles as he runs into another dead end; a creek ran through the ground, winding as far as the eye could see.

Wayward twigs had scratched every segment of him they could grasp and the leather he wore was clinging to him uncomfortably in the humidity. He'd been wandering through a whole morning cycle, the orangey glow as the sun was half hid behind clouds now covering the skies, and yet he was nowhere closer to the path that led up to the peak. In fact, where he was standing looked bizarrely similar to...

A mad, desperate mockery of a laugh almost makes its way past his lips. Of course it wouldn't be that simple. Naturally, Pan wouldn't even allow him the first step in his plan to escape, not even a taste of freedom.

He'd stepped into the same bloody clearing that he'd started from.

"Alright, you got me, lad," he shouts and sighs loudly in frustration when he receives no response; Pan's theatrics were always unwelcome. "Why don't you show yourself now?"

The buzzing of bugs and a cry of a bird is the only answer.

Maybe he had finally gone mad, forever paranoid of half-black, half-green eyes burning into his skull.

"Don't you know? Cheaters never win."

His heart thumps loudly against his ribs once and he tries to steel his nerves. He’s aware of Pan's presence like his own shadow as he's stopped concealing himself; a constant, suffocating feeling that nips at his back.

 _It was always a longshot, Pan just caught on quicker than expected, that's all._ Delaying the unavoidable was pointless, he knew that, and still his head felt heavy as he turned to face the boy.

Pan was crouched, lanky elbows positioned on knees, on the same fallen tree he had sat down on earlier; back when he assumed he actually had a starting advantage. How long had Pan been observing him without uttering a sound, changing the island around him so he was stumbling in a wrong direction at every turn?

"I'm hurt Killian, truly," Pan greets with his familiar smirk, but there's more ruthless content lurking within its rim now. "Here I thought we were starting to get to know each other, a companionship if you will." A surge of coldness and the youthful curves on Pan's boyish face flickers into sharp edges, his gaze emanating the madness that's usually locked behind a playful pretence when it fixes on Hook. "Yet here I catch you, trying to sneak away with the prize I promised. Do you honestly believe you can leave without my permission?"

The venom displayed on Pan's face has Killian's throat tightening, aching for the fleeting respite of alcohol. "Worth a shot," he says, aiming for nonchalance with a shrug and grin.

Pan's fingers tangle together, a tight grip on each other as they rest below his chin. A moment of silence passes as he watches Hook and when he speaks he seems oddly resigned—disappointed, even. "Was it _really_ worth it?"

 _Anything is worth escaping this place_. Hook wonders when his vengeance was overridden by wanting to escape—probably as soon as Peter Pan marched out the shadows, welcoming him back with a wolfs grin, cruel and biting.

"Now then, who should I pick to pay the price for your failure?" Pan taps a bony finger on his chin in fake consideration. "Perhaps some of your faithful laddies? Maybe the one with that annoying parrot—he always seemed so dull to me—and, I don't want to start a fight between such _loyal_ men, but he had some pretty horrible thoughts swimming in that head of his about you. About the man who trapped him in Neverland for his own selfish goal."

The urge to object to Pan's remark is strong, but he holds back with a buried snarl. This was all just another game: separate the captain from his crew one comment at a time, dissolve the trust they held for each other and watch them destroy themselves.

"Punish me instead," he grits out through clenched teeth.

Pan only quirks an eyebrow, but the way he stands and steps down from the tree stump, closing the distance between them in a few quick strides gives away his interest.

"Was that an order, Captain? I'm not one of your crew. No-one gives me orders."

“Yet you sure seem to like dishing a lot of orders out,” Killian points out.

Pan’s eyebrows knit together. " _Obviously_ ,” he drawls. “After all everything in Neverland belongs to me," he grabs Hook's necklace and yanks down hard, "and that includes you."

The silver around his neck is now a solid weight that would be pointless to fight against. He settles for glaring instead. "If you believe you can own people then you're madder than I gave you credit for, mate."

This close Hook can practically see the elation in Pan’s eyes, swirling in the depths of his pupils. "Madder than a pirate who believes he can win the game?"

Everything was a game to Peter Pan, he saw it in the way the boy embraced his youthfulness, drove away the grievous issues with his idea of fun, all the while mischief etched into his being. Neverland was his eternal playground, a colossal chess board full of pieces he controlled.

"Life isn't a game," he affirms anyway, even as it falls on deaf ears.

Pan raises his eyebrows. "Isn't it? Let's take your life for example. Why, revenge is the most exciting of the all." He spreads his arms wide like talons, pivoting on the spot. "The chase, the hunt, hide and seek; all in one. I'm almost envious."

Flashes of warm eyes, kind smiles and soft caresses dance tantalizing in front of his eyes. "Revenge implies you have something to lose," he says hoarsely past the lump now gathering in his throat, “something to fight for."

 _That_ causes the grin on Pan's face to crack and it's an intoxicating thrill to know he caused it, adrenaline kicking in as the youth’s façade falters for a blessed moment.

"I would never be so weak to lose in the first place," Pan spits, disgust evident in the crinkle of his brow and the snarl on his lip.

 _I would never be so weak to love,_ is all Hook hears.

They could play their parts forever, hissing at each other, breaking each other's defences one intrusive remark at a time but he is _tired_. Defeat clings to his bones like a disease as he watches the boy regard him, always bearing wicked eyes accompanied with a cruel smile as he stands in Killian's way, constantly one step ahead.

"What do you want, lad?" he asks. It's a question that always arises when he's with Pan, one he never wishes to ask and yet must to live another day.

" _Want_ ," Pan echoes curiously, features blending into a mask of innocence as wide-eyes and parted lips appear. "What I always want; fun."

Wondering digits crawl up Hook's chest, seeking entrance past the cloth, before settling on his shoulders. "And you're so much fun, Killian," Pan purrs against his neck, and he holds still when the small puff of air hits his flesh, the sensation cool even as  teeth begin to sink into his skin.

The quick, sharp sting of pain pulls Hook abruptly back into action and he shoves Pan away, who barely moves back and doesn't release his crushing grip, but at-least now he has breathing space. He lifts his hand to the ache, red trickling between the gaps of his fingers and blinks. The brat had actually _bitten_ him.

Pan licks the remaining crimson— _his blood_ —off his lip with his tongue, making a show of tasting with an appreciate noise. He's unable to tear his gaze away from Pan's lips, unfairly soft and pliant even when painted in Hook's blood.

“What the bloody hell was that for?” he hisses.

“Call it…levelling the playing field.” Pan shrugs, utterly indifferent to Killian’s rage, and deliberately drags his eyes to his own scar, a thin neat line, barely noticeable now unless you knew where to look. He glances back up with a cheeky grin. "Now we're even."

“That wasn’t—” he breaks off and rubs the sore spot, knows there will be a bruise tomorrow, a blatant possessive claim for all to see unless he covers it up (he’s suddenly glad for his coats long collars.) "You _little_ —"

A voice cuts between them, razor-sharp and clear. "Peter."

A tall hooded figure steps into sight, sweeping away the foliage with practiced ease. Even without the dirty blonde strands covering their face and the distinct voice, Hook would know their identity. There's only one Lost Boy who would seek out Pan, only one who calls him Peter (only one that has the right).

The way Pan grumbles under his breath (insults a child would most certainty not know) and hands briefly tightening on Hook’s lapels before letting go would be hilarious in any other situation. Now, Killian feels only shameful relief as the presence that was searing his skin—even though Pan's very core ran cold, his fingers and lips icy to the touch—is gone.

"This better be good, Felix, for your sake," Pan says, visage blackening, as he closes the distance between his second-in-command.

The Lost Boy, usually one of the more cool and collected bunch of the group, fails to hold back his nervousness at the assured threat. “Trust me, you’ll want to hear this,” he says.

Hook, always the careless, sends him a wink behind Pan's back; he hasn't forgotten how Felix had greeted his crew when they first arrived and the chance to antagonise the boy cannot go unfulfilled. The tight-lipped smile Felix sends his way has Pan glancing back curiously, but he's already inspecting his hook (with more attention than needed) and if it causes Pan's lips to tug up in genuine amusement, well, he doesn't care that he caused it.

"Your shadow brought something…different this time," Felix begins cautiously, his already smooth, deadly tone making the announcement sound even more ominous.

"Well?" Pan demands impatiently when the Lost Boy remains silent.

Felix glances ( _glares_ , resentment and envy moulding to create a dark fury) at Hook before leaning down to whisper into Pan's ear. It's only a single word—one that Hook doesn't quite catch—but it has Pan's spine straightening and his hands curling into tight fists. He gives a curt nod to his faithful companion and they both head for the path, seemingly forgetting all about Hook.

Against Hook's better judgement his attention is drawn back to the direction he believed still led to the poison. Whatever was happening was obviously an unwanted distraction for Pan; this could be his chance—

"Oh," Pan says as he suddenly stops and raises one hand, palm facing the ground.

The forest shifts, too fast for Hook to decipher anything but a blur of green mixed with brown. He hears the creaking as the bark moves, a whirlwind of leaves brush past him and obscures his vision. When his surroundings slow down, it's not the woods anymore; his boots are now dug deep in sand, the salty wind freely rustling his hair and coat in every direction. The Jolly Roger is within sight, resting on the seas surface where he told the men to wait.

Pan lowers his arm with a content, sly smile. "We wouldn't want the good Captain to get lost, now would we, Felix?"

"How _kind_ of you," he bites back sarcastically, taking in the brighter and more open sights dejectedly.

"You _dare,_ " Felix bristles at Hook's shameless disregard for his leader, taking a threatening step forward, only Pan's hand on his forearm holding him back.

"Don't worry Felix, he knows better." Obscure pupils slide towards him. "I trust you won't attempt to leave again."

 _Next time I won’t get caught_ , he thinks. When Pan beams at him, a predatory smile that's all teeth, Killian fears the demon can also read minds; at this point it wouldn't be out the realm of possibility.

"Be seeing you, Captain Jones," Pan bids farewell with a mock salute, and the withering scowl Hook wears has the boys grinning, wide and sardonic, before they disappear from his sight altogether.

The only positive thought that comes is at least he doesn't have to make his way out of the treacherous forest, quickly darkening as the day came to an end. It's a small mercy compared to the heavy gloom that hits after his unsuccessful venture.

 

* * *

 

Feathers cover the deck. Some are at the mercy of the wind; others have found a temporary purchase on the waves. On both accounts they are impossible to collect. It was pointless to try.

Pan would just rip the sail into shreds again. It was foolish on his part to think that Pan had forgotten all about his escape plan when Felix arrived, that they had dodged a bullet by lucky timing; he was rapidly learning there was no such thing as luck on Neverland.

"We 'ave no idea what 'appened, C'pn," one of his men is blurting, "one moment it was fine but then—"

"Punishment," Hook mumbles, his hand scraping his forehead in frustration, " _punishment_ happened."

It was a smart move. Killing a crew member would be cruel, but they'd move on, like they always had to. Injuring him, painful but short-lived—he'd heal. The loss of their Pegasus feathers was permanent and irreplaceable. Their sign of hope ( _freedom_ ) was stolen away, half left in pitiful tatters for them all to see.

Sometimes it was easy to forget that Pan was capable of more than wild displays of power, driven by arrogance or anger. Calculation was always present beneath the ferocity, and paired together it was brutal.

 

* * *

 

When his crew gape at the mark left by Pan with questions crammed into their stare, he pretends not to see, and when the whispers behind his back reach him, murmurs that fall too close to the truth, he pretends not to hear.

And when he refuses to conceal the bruise, he hates that he is so obstinate, hates the fear of losing to Pan, too accustomed to tasting defeat like ash on his tongue.

 

* * *

 

During his travels he had visited various places, from bustling kingdoms with greedy rulers to deserts filled only with animals that would bear their fangs just at the sight of you. As he lies on the beach of Neverland, cold water splashing half up his boots as they rest on the sand dangerously close to the shore, Hook watches the one thing all his vast escapades had in common.

The moon was full tonight (perhaps Pan was celebrating something?), a bright beacon on display, stars decorating the rest of the black slate and reminding him of the many diamonds that sat, safely tucked away, in the bottom of a chest on his ship. It’s a stunning sight, one you would never see from a city, and _screw it_ , he’s feeling nostalgic.

It was a quiet, vibrant night like this that he had met Milah in a tavern, head bent over the counter, brown locks hanging unceremoniously on the surface and a shaky but secure grip on her cup. When he leant up next to her, she had raised eyes that were glassy, seeing but unfocused in their despair, and the offer that her ‘next drink was on him’ left his lips without thought.

The events it set in motion, well…no-one could have predicted.

Laughter pierces through the peace like a blade; swift and efficient.

It was too high-pitch, too carefree and full of flamboyant joy to be any of his men. With a sigh, Hook heaves himself up from his blanket of sand and makes his way back to the row-boat. He has no desire to fight eternal not-quite-boys tonight.

Another noise touches his ears, a melancholy, soft sound that halts his progress.

 _Music_. He heard music.

Almost like his legs gain control over themselves, he finds himself drifting towards the melody, one curious heartbeat at a time. He doesn’t have to move far from the beach, only a barrier of large plants in his way before he finds the source. Keeping himself half hidden, he leans forward and isn’t entirely surprised by what he sees.

The Lost One’s were jumping around a fire pit, cheering and hollering, completely unidentifiable and nameless as they all wore masks, full-length shawls covering any distinguishable features.

Situated above the rest is Peter Pan, sat cross-legged on a thick branch of a tree, pipes placed in-between his hands, repetitive notes filling the area as he whistles. Pan was dressed differently, he realises with a small stab of surprise. A rich, russet hooded cloak now hid Pan’s green tunic; a red scarf wrapped loosely around his neck, only his boots visible under the robe.

 _Nothing to see here_ , _time to go,_ he thinks, and slowly backs away. It had been ages since he had experienced the alluring sound only music could comprise, but knowing Pan was the performer rid the sound of any lure.

Immediately a vine snags hold of one of his feet, wrapping around his leg multiple times effectively caging the limb like a steel wire and Hook curses out loud. Pan hasn’t given any indication he’s seen him, but there’s a smile decorating his lips now, a liveliness glimmering in the orbs watching the boys show that wasn’t there before.

"What a pleasant surprise," Pan says, finally, when he lowers the pipes from his grinning mouth. “Come to join the party, laddie?”

"I never took you for a musician," Hook says, ignoring him; his eyes are sweeping the perimeter for any hidden Lost Boys in the trees and bushes, searching for Pan’s right-hand man in particular who was absent from the dance (their faces may be hidden, but Felix was taller than any of the boys). "That piece doesn't exactly scream fun and happiness, either. Don't tell me you’re expressing your inner demons through music."

Pan's eyebrows rise, momentary shock unfolding on his face before a devious smirk appears and Killian feels dread build up in his stomach. He gets the feeling he's said something wrong, revealed a truth, exposed some sort of weakness which he shouldn't have.

"That's because it's not meant to be happy. See, only certain boys can hear this enchanted pipe—unloved, lost boys who are longing to be wanted, yearning for a home.” Pan untangles his legs and jumps down from the tree, his nimble landing not stirring a single ounce of dirt.  “Huh. I wonder what that makes _you_?"

Killian tears the plant—it was becoming dangerously close to crushing his leg—to shreds with his hook, only years of wielding a sword keeping him from injuring himself in the process. “I’m no boy.”

The edges of Pan's mouth rises up in delight. "But you _are_ lost—more lost than my own boys, which is quite a feat. It still haunts you, doesn’t it?” His tone takes a softer nature, but Hook felt no calmer; the toxic in his words were still overflowing in cruelty. “And why shouldn’t it? Having your own father abandoning you would break anyone."

(Killian only just manages to restrain a shocked breath. The only one he had ever told about his father was Baelfire.)

Hook gestures to the boys dancing nearby, oblivious or ignoring them, no doubt bones aching and hearts pacing as their limbs continue to move without pause. “So _this_ is what the great Pan does? Eavesdrops, plays a song and brings up the past to convert little boys onto his side after the Shadow has pinched them from their homes.”

“I admit my Shadow, while effective, doesn’t exactly have the _gentlest_ approach.” A smile mars Pan’s face as if he’s remembering, or finds something he said funny.  “Sometimes I have to take things into my own hands—pardon the expression—but I can assure you the boys that arrived tonight came by their own free-will. No _converting_ , as you so delicately put, involved.”

Killian stares hard at him. It’s likely to be true, the Shadow hadn't brought back any children lately; if the entity had, they would have easily heard the frightened screams, a thundering sound that rang over the otherwise silent night, filled only with the lethargic buzz of the island.

For boys—still children underneath all the boisterous bravado and stubbornness—to leave their family of their own consent to go with Pan…it was mad.

“Everyone on this island wants to be here. They love the adventure Neverland has to offer. Even you, Killian.” Catching sight of Hook's disbelief, Pan smirks but doesn’t elaborate. "Besides, I can't have my Shadow do _all_ the work, can I? I do have a reputation to keep."

"So instead of a ghost stealing them from their beds in the dead of the night, they had to deal with you." Hook snorts. "I'd prefer the shadow, mate."

Pan’s pupils skim to the bruise fully bloomed on Hook’s neck with a drip of pride and an ocean full of satisfaction. "We both know that's not quite true."

His arm involuntary twitches to cover where Pan’s attentions lie but he holds back. He refuses to be bested by a demon-boy.

"Let’s play a game,” Pan demands on the spur of the moment, eyes alight with endless schemes.

Killian lets out a harsh bark of laughter, his profound revulsion for Pan and his _games_ rising to the surface. “I’ll pass, thanks,” he says, turning on his heels.

Pan appears in-front of him and he barely catches himself from stumbling into the youth’s frame. "Oh, I wasn't asking."

“Too bad,” he lowers his voice into a manner that would make most men cower in fear (but Pan isn’t most men, not a man at all), “because I’m _not_ playing.”

He brushes past the boy with more force than necessary and Pan staggers back a few mere inches, but it’s enough distance for him to move around.

Almost like a silent order has been ushered, or a puppeteer has pulled at their strings, all the Lost Ones cease their festivities in harmony and stare at Pan as if they’re waiting for a command, one that most likely ends in the pirates death. Inwardly, Hook is itching for the opportunity to draw his sword, agitation licking at his fingers. If he has to he’ll cut them all down, remorse or not.

He’s able to glide right past them though, only lingering glares touching him as they grudgingly move to let him pass.

"You'll regret not playing this one," Pan provokes from the same spot.

The taunt keeps him from taking another step, feet suddenly rooted into place as the words echo in his head. Peter Pan may be an evil, infuriating, monstrous boy but, for whatever unknown reasons, he never lied.

And Killian knew enough about regret to last him an infinite amount of lifetimes.

"I'm listening," he allows, turning his head only slightly so he can see Pan in the corner of his vision, but not enough to give away the full range of his interest.

A long note chimes, the eerie sound from the pan-pipes dragging on as Pan plays, who is seemingly pleased when Hook doesn’t look away. Without pause in his performance, he waves the boys away with a firm hand gesture. The Lost Ones shuffle away, resuming their celebrations near the fire, but the older ones (a funny concept, considering they were all more mature than their body’s revealed) cast threatening glowers his way frequently.

Most of Hook’s attention is stolen by Pan though, whose eyes are flickering with the shadows formed by the flames, and a shudder drifts down the full length of his spine. After the small performance (just for him, what an _honour_ ) Pan attaches the pipes to his belt within the folds of his cloak, tapping the instrument for added impact before he speaks.

"If you're unable to hear these pipes when I play, I'll give you permission to leave Neverland," Pan announces aloof, like he hasn’t just offered something as grand as freedom, and he holds up a handful of dagger-like fingers, counting down a digit with each word. "Ship, crew and Dreamshade all intact for your safe voyage."

Hook raises a disbelieving eyebrow even as hope threatens to burst from its cage; the deal was too good to be true—there had to be a catch. "And there's no time limit?"

Pan glances away briefly with a petulant sigh, dramatic and drawn out. He crosses his arms, fingers resting on his elbows. "I thought we already covered the disgusting prospect of time in Neverland."

Despite himself, Hook huffs in amusement at the boys obvious impatience. “Point taken.”

"But,” Pan begins, devious smirk fixed in place, but his eyes are tranquil, _serious_ , “until you hear nothing, only silence, you won’t even entertain the idea of running away, let alone dare try another attempt.”

Hook smiles a humourless smile. He clamps down on the part of him that’s screaming against the notion of giving up, _staying_ , and it’s similar to building iron bars. "Always a price."

“Always,” Pan repeats, no trace of remorse present. "Magic always goes hand-in-hand with a price and I am no exception."

He frowns but his mind is spinning; it's not a bad bargain, any further efforts to leave would most likely end up futile anyway, and there's no bloody way he'll be beaten by an _instrument,_ even if it was infused with magic.

Pan materializes before him again, this time offering a hand, appearing harmless in its child-like size, but Killian knows better. Pan’s fingers may as-well be claws, nails as sharp as thorns.  He pushes the untaken appendage away with his hook, a look of distaste on his face. It’s an unspoken rule, one that everyone knows; you do not shake hands with a devil.

But you _do_ make deals with them.

And when children’s laughter winds through the trees behind them, Pan staring at him knowingly, Hook feels truly damned.

 

* * *

 

His body jolts, almost twisting his neck in the process as he tries to locate what woke him (had he even be sleeping?). Disorientated, it takes him a few moments to focus, to pick out the pulsating vibration pounding in his ears.

 _It’s the same music,_ he notices with increasing trepidation, _that same bloody music that almost cost him everything._

The Charmings, Emma and Neal are surrounding each other, hands gesturing frantically as they try to come up with the best solution for finding the Queen, varying stages of impatience decorating their expressions.

But none of them are showing any signs of hearing the haunting notes that drift around them. It’s maddening. The line between reality and illusion is intertwined too tightly together and he almost wonders if he ever did escape Neverland in the first place, if this was all just a fantasy he made up to stay sane throughout the century.

Killian thuds his hook against his cheekbone several times, relief swelling under his ribs when pain tinges there, blood vigorously rushing to the surface.

Pain was good. Pain was proof he was awake—but the song was _still_ playing.

Pan was provoking (summoning?) him, a confident challenge from afar. Fine with him. He was happy to find the boy and wrap his hands around the bastard’s neck, shake him ruthlessly for forcing Hook to re-experience Neverland all over again.

He glances over to the rest; they’re all too wrapped up in their dispute to notice him, so he slips away easily, letting his ears lead the way through the unfamiliar terrain and uneven ground.

Even without the aid of the music it’s a clear path to where Pan waits, the trees bend the opposite way, greenery parting for him, and it only fuels his anger more. Help, whether you accepted it or not, from Pan was the same as making a deal with Rumplestilskin; naught to show at completion and debt engraving a pattern onto your very bones.

A honeyed voice that sounded like drowning and burning all at once speaks up, and their words have Killian’s teeth grating together unpleasantly.

“You can hear the music even now, can’t you?”

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all the dearies who left a comment/kudos before— you make me smile :') 
> 
> I know the flashbacks had some loose-ends but I'll clear that up in the next part...with _more_ flashbacks...yeah.
> 
> (Not gonna lie, I can't wait to see Robbie acting as cute, innocent Henry. Also where the hell are our scenes between Hook and Peter in the past few episodes? We need more, c'mn!)


End file.
